


The Life of Julienne Traven, and of the Dragonborn

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23343238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: I was - I am - the Last Dragonborn: however much I may wish to deny it, I cannot set aside this part of me, this intrusion that for a while gave me a quest and a purpose, and a good deal of anxiety. It is in search of this great hero of Skyrim that readers will flock to any semblance of autobiography from me. But I am also Julienne Traven, and my own person: it is not the memoirs of the Dragonborn that you will read, but the memories of a Breton from Bruma, who quite by accident was led to Skyrim, and who may have fulfilled a great destiny, but who reserves the absolute right to complain about it.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Marcurio
Kudos: 3





	1. Narrating the Self

I do not know where to begin my story: for most of those who are reading it, will surely expect a legend, and a tale of exploits; some may wish to know a little of me, of my character and motivations; there are few who would wish to know all of the ins and outs of everything, and yet I write primarily for myself, and do not know where to put the emphasis, I merely wish to put together the story of my life, in all its indiscriminate detail. And so I shall... You shall have the legend of the Dragonborn, but I see it as but a part of my life and story; you shall have the description of my person, but this will ever be for a purpose, for one cannot understand actions without understanding the thoughts behind them; and then, besides all this, you shall have what may seem like a fountain of trivia, for I write without any other purpose than to record a life.

An autobiography, then: that most egocentric of works, by a person who can scarcely speak of herself before a single person, let alone before the whole reading public! That is what I must set aside, it must be remembered that, though there is likely some manner of audience awaiting my self-scrutiny and self-narrative, I write for _myself_ , I write out of pure wish to write, that is all I can put into words, at the present moment.

Where does one begin an autobiography? – at one’s very birth? – The name _Dragonborn_ is quite misleading: it has oft been assumed that I have, at least subconsciously, been aware of this identity my entire life, rather than discovering it much later on. As you will no doubt find out, should you continue to read, my sentiment was for a long time not that I had learnt of my identity, but that I had gained a new one, that something happened, on the plains of Whiterun, or perhaps shortly before... That is not the point. Whatever the nature of a Dragonborn identity is, I was entirely unaware of it, as a child; my birth was as any other, and likely so was my childhood, with the exception of certain extraordinary events, which more or less marked me during this time.

My name is Julienne Traven: and before I myself became associated with legend, certain people yet recognised the name, or thought they did. I had a distant relative whose name was Julianne Traven, and for whom I was named: she was the final Arch-Mage of the Mages’ Guild, an extraordinary magician and scholar, whom I admire immensely; or rather, I admire what I have heard of her, for the passage of time in our world preserves loosely-connected feats and achievements, rather than the full person behind them. – Perhaps that is why I write this autobiography. – Leastways, she was not the most famous of the Travens: that honour surely went to her sister Corinne, yet remembered as the Champion of Cyrodiil despite the Thalmor’s best efforts. My ancestral line however comes from their cousin Marianne, about whom much less is known, but who contributed widely to magical scholarship, and also to the works of the Imperial Cult in Cyrodiil.

It would take years, and several books, to recount all of the adventures of my ancestors before me. Those things which are most important for you to know are the identities of my immediate family. I was brought up in Bruma, which has always been known for its high population of Nords, but which became especially known during and following the Great War of the 170s, when the city rebelled rather against the institution of the Thalmor and the White-Gold Concordat – most especially the censorship of worship of the Nine Divines. This was not a loud rebellion until some time after the war, for the county, like the province, like Tamriel, needed time to catch their breath, and to muster forces. These forces were composed of indignant citizens, railing against all of the horrors and injustices of the war; Talos worshippers, clinging to their religious freedom, for it takes far more than a Concordat to halt what is the foundation of many people’s lives; and most significantly, the remnants of the Blades, holed up in a certain Cloud Ruler Temple, which lay in the mountains beyond Bruma, and which had until very recently been unknown to their enemies, and a safe haven for them.

But the Temple and the city were assaulted, not with violence so much as with intimidation, at first: but one cannot be so intimidated, without defending oneself, without fighting back, and the city fought back. The Temple was attacked directly, and it was in this bloody battle that my grandmother Alicie, herself a Blade, so tragically lost her life. – My parents, too, were killed in the assault on the city, attempting to defend nothing less than the Chapel, formerly of Talos, which the citizens had considered an untouchable sanctuary despite everything. – Whether the Thalmor targeted them specifically, knowing their surname, knowing their connexion with the most famous of the Blades, Corinne Traven, is something which my grandfather has always speculated about, and which I perhaps thought were true, until I myself were implicated in politics involving the Thalmor, where my surname did not seem to have much influence or effect.

That was in 180, and I was less than one year old, and during the assault I was by some miraculous fortune out of the city, safely in the countryside, with my great-aunt Agnete: and so even if I should recall anything from that age, I am entirely sheltered from any memory of the horrors I have since heard second-hand. I do not remember my parents at all, and perhaps that is for the better. I shall name them, however, for they do not deserve the anonymity they have received, until now: they were Julien and Aurore Traven, mage-scholars, common civilians, and the people who gave me life. May their memory never fade, nor that of Alicie, so tragically taken before their time, as so many others alongside them; may my small tribute here form part of a greater whole, that we do not forget what the war did to our province, our home, our families..

I was brought up, then, by my grandfather Hans and his sister Agnete, in Bruma, struck so horrifically in 180, but which rebounded, and which in fact continued its rebellion, if very quietly. One cannot hold a Nord down that easily. – Grandfather is an innkeeper, and Agnete a mage; both are Nords; so that even though I am in name and appearance a Breton, I was brought up rather in the Nordic style. That is, I appreciate a warm fire and a good drink perhaps a little more than the next person, I have a fondness for plaiting my hair, and I feel rather at home in Skyrim, or at the least not out of place.

Had I perhaps had the confidence to speak to people outside of my immediate family, then I might have absorbed a little more of the culture: but that is a matter of my character, which I shall come to later. What matters, is that I grew up on legends of the Travens and of the Blades; that I grew up on the surreptitious worship of all nine of the Divines; that I learnt magic from my great-aunt, in a similarly surreptitious fashion; and that the very name of Skyrim always tempted me, when I thought on my future, and wondered if I should ever have the opportunity or the confidence to attempt Pale Pass, over the border, beyond the Jerall Mountains, and so beyond my present world. 

For I dreamt of adventure... I was too young, to remember the horrors of war, to remember what it is, to be caught in an overturning of the normality to which every one of us clings more than we might admit. I dreamt of adventure, in a grand and naïve sort of way, certainly: but I also dreamt of adventure in a quieter sense, I dreamt of the small adventure that comes from novelty, from constant marvel at the natural world, from external discovery, and internal. And most significantly, I dreamt, or I thought I dreamt, of magical scholarship and discovery, I read the works of Julianne Traven not with deep theoretical interest, but with a wish to venture into the world, and play with the elements, magic for magic’s sake, and for that of _novelty_.

Those who knew me then, might have laughed at my dreams of novelty. Certainly I seemed very much the creature of routine. Agnete and I spent our days at the market, or in the forests or the foothills, or among our ramshackle library; and our evenings were unfailingly spent brewing potions, cooking dinner, and then settling by the fire with our embroidery. Nobody might have recognised in that the Dragonborn of legend, or indeed a simple mercenary. And yet... my problem was not so much that I dreamed, it was that I did not dream beyond the possible, and much to my astonishment, I was confronted with the opportunity to make my dreams reality.

I said I might say something of my childhood: really, all I seem to have done is reveal my childhood to be a preparation for a story that came later. The trouble with narrative is that it constantly seeks plot. Perhaps I shall intersperse my narrative with earlier reminiscences: but at this stage, I feel myself pulled inevitably towards what I might consider the beginning of this story. Do not mistake it for the beginning of _my_ story: I do not believe that my life began when I was twenty, that it had no purpose before the true start of my adventures, or before I met Marcurio... It is but convention that leads me to begin my narrative on a certain day on the edge of spring, in the year 200: yes, that is where I shall start.


	2. The Beginning of Things

My grandfather Hans is by inheritance, and by vocation, the proprietor of the Jerall View Inn, an establishment that is the talk of Bruma, the favoured haunt of a good proportion of its citizens, and which is more often than one might expect mentioned favourably beyond the county. – That is, it offers soft beds, warm chatter, and mead in the Skyrim style, which are the comforts of the locals, and the relief of any Nord who has ventured south from Skyrim. – The inn has stood for as long as anyone might remember, at least since the Third Era, and lays claim to having provided hospitality to Corinne Traven, on more than one occasion. But while Grandfather frequently stays at the inn overnight, Agnete and I have never been much inclined towards its bustle, at least not for very long, and so we have a house nearby. He makes sure to visit every day, bringing with him all the news, the talk of the town, the nature of any newcomers to the inn, everything which might be of interest; and also bringing a bottle or two of mead or wine, when I was considered old enough to partake of it.

It was a West Weald vintage which he brought that morning, and put in the larder for later; and it was news of a newcomer with which he determined to regale us, for late the previous afternoon, he had just been preparing for the evening’s onslaught, when a man in faded yellow robes had slipped in, and taken up residence in a corner, over a small mug of mead, and three books.

‘He’d ordered his mead in a Heartlander accent,’ Grandfather went on: ‘that’s not something you hear every day. I assumed he was some kind of scholar, a mage-scholar probably, I think they were mages’ robes he was wearing. But I asked him – you know me, I’m too curious when we get newcomers – anyway, turns out he was a mercenary. A mercenary in Bruma, unarmed and unarmoured, with the voice of the City elite – that's _definitely_ not something you see every day. I didn’t really believe him.’

Agnete and I conceded that we weren’t sure we believed it either.

‘Anyway, he tried to give his best impression of being a mercenary, but with little success. I had someone come in later, wanting a blade for hire; directed him to this lad; guy went away without a hire. Our friend seems to be advertising himself with the claim that magic is better than weaponry. That’s not exactly the best way to win over a Nord. You can’t be a blade for hire if you don’t even carry a blade. Not up here, anyway.’

‘Bound weaponry,’ I said at once, with a smile.

‘You think conjuring Daedric stuff is going to make it any better?’ Grandfather laughed. ‘Anyway, I heard a few people chat with him, briefly; they were disinterested at best, scornful at worst. He’s setting himself up for disaster. I don’t want to tell him he should move on, but –’

‘Does he realise where he is?’ Agnete asked.

‘Oh! I haven’t the least idea. I joked that it was a good job he hadn’t gone to Skyrim. He replied, perfectly seriously, that that was his plan, when Pale Pass has thawed out a bit. Good luck to him, I say. He’ll most definitely need it.’

Then, turning to look at me:

‘If you’re going to be a mage mercenary, like you said you wanted, I think my advice is to do... what our friend here isn’t doing.’

‘But you know that I should like to go to Skyrim,’ I returned.

‘I thought you meant you would like to go to the College of Winterhold,’ said he.

The College of Winterhold, as you no doubt know, is considered one of the finer magical institutions yet standing in Tamriel, for the simple reason that there is scarcely any competition. – I do it too little favour by saying so: certainly it is not bad, certainly it has many resources and much opportunity, and it was the institution which Agnete attended, at my age, and which she yet remembered fondly. And from time to time, in between my thoughts of adventure, I had considered that I might like to be a mage-scholar – those had been my dreams of a good while ago now, when I had become absorbed in the works of Julianne Traven, when I had thought that I might enjoy years and years of study and experimentation in near-isolation.

It is perhaps a sign of both maturity, and of the opposite, that I had in more recent years begun to doubt this dream. I could not stand to be cooped up inside, I had not the concentration for close study. If I was to learn magic in any fashion, it must be experimental and applied, it must be in context. Perhaps one day I would make my way to Winterhold, or the Arcane University, or one of the few remaining schools of the arcane: for now, my deepest desire was the one which Grandfather had already voiced, to become a mercenary, a freelance adventurer. I suppose the issue here was that I had not the least idea how to become one, or where to find the necessary training.

‘I don’t think I do,’ said I: ‘I want to know what Skyrim is like, first.’

At this Agnete looked rueful, and said: ‘I would make the journey with you, if I thought I could do it, but I think Frostcrag Spire might be my absolute limit.’

(Frostcrag Spire is the tumbledown ruin of a tower, high in the Jerall foothills, to which Agnete and I had made a journey, several years previously; we had had to camp overnight, a little lower down from it, and we returned with cold damp feet and the grumpiest disposition that Grandfather had ever seen.)

‘I too would like to see Skyrim,’ Hans replied, pensive: ‘I never have, and it is my spiritual homeland... But I’m not sure I could make the journey, either. – Leastways, my point is, Nords aren’t fond of magic, I think you both know that, and you would have far more luck down south. Don’t know why the fellow didn’t stay in the Heartlands.’

It was concern and not malice that motivated his words, and I was somewhat inclined to agree with him. If Agnete and I were surreptitious in our study of magic, it is not because it is disallowed, like the worship of Talos, but because it is viewed with suspicion, as you may well have gathered. The story of the Nord tricked by witches, and divested of his clothes, is unfounded myth, certainly: but the distrust is very much founded in reality. I so wanted to go to Skyrim, but from the varying accounts, I knew that the practice of magic might net me anything from a scathing glance, to an arrest, the latter with some kind of excuse about disturbing the peace. The situation was not quite so bad in Bruma, but it was wise to be careful.

All of this, of course, meant that we did not often come by fellow mages. If Grandfather’s story had told me anything, it was that there was a kindred spirit in the very next building, and that I might learn something from him, were I to speak to him. This was the thought which had manifested in my mind; this was the thought that I wished I could entertain, without it causing me anxiety, every time I came to it.

I wanted to speak to him, to this fellow mage, despite my grandfather’s warnings about his apparent stupidity: and yet, and yet, my character did not allow for it. – Here is an important thing which you must know about me: that I am, or was, at that point, so inept in any situation involving people outside of my family, that I avoided them entirely; that when I speak, even to Grandfather and Agnete, it is with such prolific stuttering and hesitation that it is a wonder I am ever understood; that in short, the very prospect of interacting with another person makes me tremble, makes my heart and mind race, discourages me at once from following through with any desire of doing so. – In short, though I knew that I perhaps ought to speak to this mage, to learn something of his trade, to speak, essentially, to someone who was not my family, I did not think I could possibly summon up the courage, and so did not mention any of my inclinations.

Leastways, the conversation turned to other things; at length Grandfather went to tend to his inn, and Agnete and I decided to go and look at some cloth, for our next dressmaking project. By the end of the day, I had entirely forgotten that there was a fellow-mage in Bruma, or that I had ever considered interacting with another person; my attention was on the soft green fabric that I had chosen, and on the chalk lines upon it, as I cut out the pattern for a new set of robes.

The subject of the mercenary however returned the following day, briefly: our poor fellow had not had any success with being hired, but was optimistic enough to remain, for the moment; and when he had not been asleep, he had apparently occupied the same chair for almost the entire day, paying Grandfather rather handsomely for his meals, and still hunched over his books. That was not the crux of the matter: it appeared that Grandfather had been conversing with him a little, when the inn had been quiet.

‘I mentioned you, Julienne,’ he said: ‘and he seemed surprised at the mention of another mage up here, especially someone with an interest in destruction-magic. – That must be his field, I think, where mercenary work is concerned: but his books are on Dwemer history, as far as I can determine.’

‘What we know about the Dwemer would fill one book at most, surely,’ laughed Agnete.

Grandfather chuckled. ‘Perhaps. – But he said he’d like to meet a Nord mage: he thinks that would be an interesting conversation.’

‘I am not a Nord,’ said I; and immediately realised he might have been referring to Agnete.

‘That’s what I said,’ replied Grandfather, who was not. ‘I get the feeling he’s just starved of conversation about magic. Perhaps you ought to go and chat with him – both of you. You likely have plenty of interesting things to talk about. – And he’s just about your age, Julienne. Maybe a bit older.’

‘Oh!’ said I, for I had not imagined him as young.

‘And while you’re at it,’ Grandfather put in: ‘you can discourage him from whatever he’s planning on doing. Or at least, tell him the right way to go about it. I know you two know how to be subtle, where magic is concerned.’

‘It might be nice, to talk to a Heartlander,’ considered Agnete: ‘sometimes I forget we’re not separate from the rest of Cyrodiil. Perhaps he can tell us first-hand about the City. Oh! that’s where the Arcane University is, I wonder if that’s where he studied?’

‘The Arcane University!’ I cried: these words being more glorious in my mind than the College of Winterhold, for that was where my parents had studied magic, and that was where Julianne Traven had been Arch-Mage. – It is considered to have declined hugely since the Third Era, and most especially in the years since the Great War, but I yet retain a somewhat misplaced nostalgia for the idea of it.

‘I don’t know: seems quite young for it,’ Grandfather said. ‘Anyway, the poor lad just looks like he needs company at this point, frankly. All the locals are scared of him. Didn’t really help, last night, when he conjured a reading-light. You’d have thought he’d set something on fire, the way everyone reacted.’

I looked a little scandalised, but Agnete merely looked sympathetic, and said:

‘Maybe I’ll talk to him... I don’t think Julienne will be up for it, will you?’

The turbulence in my mind, the anxiety! Oh! I was curious, more than curious; I wanted to talk magic; Divines, you know already my debate; but I had to shake my head.

And I regretted it at once... It was late morning; there would be nobody else in the inn; Agnete would be with me. I decided, therefore, there and then, that I would go with her, and for once in my life I would try to talk to a stranger.

I voiced this change in opinion, surprising my relatives rather. Agnete beamed, and stood.

‘Come on, then, Julienne,’ she said: ‘let’s go and see what we can make of him: and if nothing else, let’s talk magic, it’s what we do best.’


End file.
